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WHChaibun
- Cindy Tebo |
Haibun Selections
Paul T. Conneally, Editor
Loughborough, UK
Miles Removed
Cindy Tebo
Catawissa, MO, USA
There was never an area so misnamed as the livingroom. It is a place where
children are not allowed to be themselves. They are told to sit with their arms
folded and politely nod 'yes' or 'no.' All this is done for the purpose of
impressing the occasional company who show up around the holidays.
row of demitasse cups
from every place mom's been
without the kids
Our distant cousins, miles
removed, will arrive soon. From the dark depths of a junk drawer my sister and I
pull out our scholastic achievements from the past
five years. We tack on artwork, teachers glowing comments, and the blue ribbons
we earned for not talking in class. It all hangs on a corkboard next to the coat
rack.
ornament with my picture
I find a spot on the tree
where no one will see it
Once the relatives finish
"wowing" over our life's accomplishments, we offer them some store
bought mints. My sister and I are not allowed to eat any. As usual, we are
expected to be above temptation. It helps when the candy dish is designed
to clink loudly at the slightest touch. Even parents who are otherwise deaf will
hear its tinkle three rooms away.
spilled dip
dad believes
the cat is innocent
And if the mints fail, bring on
the piano. Our frustrated music teacher has worked with us all year to perfect a
sister-act duet. By striking chords together, it is her hope that all onlookers
will have the impression that we are budding Mozarts -- except neither of us
wear wigs. Therefore, the hair must be forced into curls by those torturous,
barbed rollers. These are fine contraptions for young porcupines but do little
for a musician's performance. Thus, my sister and I both have headaches before
we ever start to play.
"silent night"
an occasional pop
from my sister's
bubble gum
Another problem is the piano
bench. It's as soft as stone, complete with
jagged corners that are perfect for jabbing anyone foolish enough to sit down.
If two people insist on sitting there, elbow room must be sacrificed. So it's no
wonder that my sister and I play quite a few wrong notes while knocking each
other in the side. Sometimes by accident and sometimes on purpose. But our
well-mannered audience claps anyway and asks for an encore. We thank them and
just as politely say, "no way, we hate playing the piano!"
parental glare
sometimes the truth
really does hurt
While there is a lull in the
conversation, our cousins entertain themselves by staring at the chandelier. Not
a grandiose chandelier like the kind at fancy concert halls, but a miniature
one. It is slightly larger than the dollhouse fixture on display at the hobby
shop. And besides, a bigger chandelier would only interfere with the heads of
our taller guests.
blow-up rudolph
his red nose
over the presents
More damaging is what comes out of
the liquor cabinet. Once or twice a year its doors swing open -- a bit of rum
for Aunt Maggie's eggnog, a shot of whisky
for Uncle Hugo's rheumatism, a scotch and water for Dad's sanity and for us
kiddies, red punch from the icebox.
between gulps of beer
my uncle asks me
if I've been
"naughty or nice"
After we consume our drinks, it's
time to move into the kitchen. A plume of steam
rises from a green apple pie as we gather around the dinner table to eat. For
us, it is the kitchen where the real "living" takes place.
snowing outside
we bow our heads
to say grace
